Another Auld Lang Syne
by onceinabluemoon0013
Summary: Sherlock finally visits Molly on Christmas Eve after his return from the dead, but is he too late? Christmas one-shot, now with an alternate ending.
1. Chapter 1

**I have had a lot of Sherlolly feels today because of all of the new promo pics for Sherlock Series 3. I had been meaning to write this before Christmas anyway, so I figured why not? If you haven't listened to Same Old Lang Syne by Dan Fogelberg, you should. It's one of my favorite Christmas songs, even if it does break my heart a little bit. **

**I still own nothing.**

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_We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to time_

_Reliving in our eloquence, another 'auld lang syne'…_

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock! Try not to get into too much trouble tonight!" Mary Watson calls as she and John watch the detective stalk away from their flat. He hears a muttered, "You think he'll be all right, don't you, John?" before pulling the collar of his Belstaff tighter around his neck and hurrying forward.

The Watsons had requested that he spend the evening with them. He is grateful for the invitation, but holiday traditions remind him too much of Christmases past. Memories, almost too painful to bear, flood through his mind.

Snow is falling heavily in London on this Christmas Eve, his first since his return from the dead two weeks ago. The bruise around his eye has faded to a dull yellowish color, a "Welcome home" gift from John Watson. The hit was quickly followed by a bone-crushing hug, though neither Sherlock nor John admit to initiating the gesture. After that reunion, everyone else's reactions had seemed simple in comparison, but there is one person whom Sherlock has been avoiding. He squares his shoulders and makes his way towards her little flat.

He knows she has met someone since his departure, a wonderful man if the opinions of John and Lestrade are to be believed. Sherlock decides to save judgment until he meets the man. (He refuses to remember his name.) Not just anyone is good enough for _his_ pathologist. A familiar Christmas carol drifts out of a passing cab, and Sherlock is suddenly thrown back into that fateful Christmas party years ago, when his perceptions of Molly Hooper shifted so drastically he still can't quite catalog her significance. No words seem to describe the role she plays in his life.

The sense of remorse he had felt when he so cruelly deduced her feelings comes back in full force, and he wonders (not for the first time) what had passed through her mind when he said those awful things. His fingers reach into his pocket and close around the tiny box situated there. The gift is really the least he can do after everything she has undergone to ensure his safety. Mind made up, he quickens his pace, bracing himself against the blustery night air.

Resolve aside, he halts when he reaches her modest building and stares up at her second-story window. What if she isn't home? What if she is with _him_? He ignores the way his gut tightens uncomfortably at that thought and starts heading up.

Two brisk knocks and several uncomfortable minutes later, Sherlock finally hears quiet footsteps approaching the door. A small gasp reaches his ears from the other side of the wood, and he smiles into the small peephole. The unmistakable sound of clanging metal alerts him that she is unlocking her door, and moments later it swings open. He gazes upon the face of the one woman he has been unable to keep from his mind for the better part of three years. Every thought leaves him as he drinks in the sight, like a parched man given water for the first time in months.

She is wearing a jumper with a smiling reindeer on the front, accompanied by dark leggings. _Not expecting company, then_, Sherlock smirks internally. Her hair is pulled back from her face haphazardly, and her glasses hang on the end of her nose. Molly stares up at him, shocked by his presence after so long without so much as a text message.

"Hello, Molly," he says simply, waiting for her to invite him inside. She notices his hesitance and steps aside, closing the door after he enters. She continues to look at him, choosing to remain silent. He rushes to explain himself. "I am sorry for not coming to see you sooner. Forgive me." He winces as he realizes what has spewed from his mouth. She must have as well, because her face takes on an expression of sadness. Sherlock doubts they will ever truly be able to get past what occurred at that horrid party.

She shakes her head and turns towards her kitchen. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?" He follows her into the next room and stands to one side as she starts rummaging through her cupboards.

"It's Christmas. I wanted to see you."

She snorts at that and sets two glasses down on the counter before pouring a large quantity of his favorite Scotch into each glass. He vaguely remembers her forcing some down his throat after his fall, when he had been in pain and half-delirious. He tries not to be flattered that she saved it for this long. (He fails.)

She tilts her head towards him, holding out a glass. He takes it, and his fingers gently graze hers for a moment before she pulls back, ending the contact. He ignores the sense of loss he feels and focuses instead on the amber liquid. "Cheers!" Molly exclaims. She clinks their glasses together before gulping down her drink. He does the same and relishes the burn as the alcohol flows down his throat.

He follows her once more as she ambles back out to the sitting room, sitting on the sofa. Although there are other chairs scattered around the room, he chooses the seat next to her, finding comfort in her nearness and warmth. She refills his Scotch, and he gazes around the flat as he downs it. His eyes rake over the ornamented tree and the Christmas decorations arranged all around, with no apparent order to be found. He sees Toby dressed in a sweater that matches that of his mistress and fights back a laugh. The cat glances at him disinterestedly before returning his attention to the ball of yarn between his paws.

Sherlock sets down the glass (really, he probably should have stopped at one drink) and realizes he is still wearing his coat. He goes to remove it when his hand brushes the box in his pocket. "Oh! I have something for you."

Her eyes dart up from where they were intensely observing her twiddling fingers, alighting on his face. He feels the blush reddening his cheeks under her scrutiny and thrusts the gift onto her lap. With trembling hands she unties the bow, and tears at the paper, gasping when she sees the object inside.

During his travels, he often found trinkets that reminded him of her. A kitten figurine during a mission in Germany, a tiny replica of the Eiffel tower while hiding from his enemies in France. (She once told him that her parents had taken her to see it when she was eight) While he was perusing a marketplace in the States, however, he had stumbled upon a shop that made custom jewelry. He could not resist commissioning the necklace, a tiny microscope dangling from a thin, gold chain.

Tears well up in Molly's chocolate eyes, as she raises her left hand to cover her mouth. It is at this moment that Sherlock notices the shiny diamond glittering on her finger. His stomach plummets, and he feels as though he has lost something vital without realizing he needed it.

"Sherlock, I…." Her voice shakes as she turns to him, inching minutely closer. "This is…."

"I know."

Molly picks up the gold pendant, examining it closely, when she holds it up to him. "Will you…?" He nods his assent, and she moves so her back is facing him.

She grabs her hair and brings it over her shoulder so he can clasp the chain at the back of her neck. Sherlock's fingers linger on her satin skin, delicately playing with the miniscule hairs which have escaped her ponytail. She lets out a sigh as his hand moves to the sensitive spot just below her ear, and she arches slightly into the touch. Abruptly, she sits up straight, and Sherlock's arm returns to his side.

"I'm getting married."

"I know."

He reaches for her hand, grasping it tightly within his own when she tries to pull away. "Molly, I…." He drifts off at the pleading look on her face. She does not say a word, but he comprehends as easily as if she had screamed at him. The two of them always did have a silent language only they understood. _I'm happy with him. Please don't ruin thi_s _for me._

He gulps down the words on the tip of his tongue, the words he has been unable to say for years. Now, he never will. "Do you love him?" he asks instead, praying to a god he does not believe in that she says no.

"Yes." _Oh._ Sherlock is struck by pain so deep he wonders if he might actually die this time.

"Do you love me?" He curses himself for his weakness. He should have given her the present and left, saved himself from the heartbreak he is experiencing now.

"You know I do. I always have, always will. You know that. It's just…."

"You don't love me in a romantic way anymore."

He removes his hand from hers and moves to stand up, when her next statement stops him short. "That's not what I said, Sherlock."

He settles into his seat again and lays his head against the back of the sofa. His eyes close involuntarily, and he realizes how exhausted he is. Three years of being constantly on the run has taken its toll.

"Molly, I don't—"

"Please, Sherlock, let me talk." When he makes no effort to continue speaking, she continues. "I don't think I could stop loving you like that, even if I wanted to. But Tom makes me happy. He doesn't forget important dates or anniversaries. He calls to let me know if he is going to be late. He's one of the sweetest men I've ever met, and I love him. I imagine that you'd like him if you got to know him."

Sherlock hears what she does not say in her speech. That while Tom does all of those things for her, she does not believe that Sherlock would. He opens one eye and gazes at her. She is nervously chewing her bottom lip, afraid of his reaction to what she has just confessed.

"He is a good man, then?" he questions after several moments of tense silence.

"The best," she answers, a shy smile lighting up her face and a far-off look in her eyes.

"Very well. I hope you find everything you deserve," he says, accentuating his words with a soft kiss to her cheek. She reaches out and squeezes his hand, gratitude evident in her eyes. A single tear rolls down her cheek, until it falls down and lands on their conjoined hands.

Unable to resist one final contact, he brushes a stray strand of hair away from her face. He chastely touches his lips to hers. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he whispers into her ear, trying to ignore the way she shivers as his breath blows over her neck. She is still sitting on her sofa, staring off into space as he grabs his coat and exits her flat. He takes the long route back to 221B Baker Street, a group of carolers singing "Silent Night" offering the perfect background music to his musings.

As the snow continues to fall on the quiet streets of London, Sherlock is unable to keep his mind from conjuring images of Molly Hooper, and what might have been had he realized the depth of his feelings before it was too late.

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**Love it? Hate it? Please leave a review to let me know what you thought! Your reviews help me improve and make my day better!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So, I know this story was originally an angst-ridden one-shot, but I couldn't leave you all hanging like that! Some of you seemed interested in a continuation, so here you go! Feel free to ignore this alternate ending if you like how the first part ended. For the record, I think that is a likely scenario for how this season will play out. On another note, I would like to wish a happy birthday to AJP910! Thank you for always leaving a review and making me smile!**

**Here is a happier ending to my original story. I thought we could all use a little Christmas cheer after everything that went down at the Empty Hearse screening!**

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Molly Hooper sits in shock, fingers brushing her mouth where she can still taste Sherlock's kiss (mint, coffee, and something else, something uniquely _Sherlock_), until she hears her front door opening. Glancing at the clock on her wall, Molly is surprised to discover that she has been staring into space for nearly an hour.

_ Time flies when the man you've been in love with for seven years suddenly decides he wants you back._

_But then again,_ Molly argues with herself, _maybe it wasn't so sudden._ Maybe she has just been blind to the evidence staring her blatantly in the face. She should have known something had altered between them the moment he confessed that she counted and that he trusted her. For Sherlock Holmes, that is practically the equivalent of a declaration of eternal devotion.

"Molly?" She raises her head at the soft voice calling her name and smiles at her fiancé, hoping her internal struggle does not show in her expression. Judging from the way his face falls, she has failed.

"Hello, love. Merry Christmas! How was work?" Her voice takes on a cheery tone, and Molly is unexpectedly exhausted, tired of always hiding behind warm smiles and silly jumpers. Only two people have ever been able to see through that façade. The first is currently standing before her, happiness rapidly dwindling as he gazes at her. The second…. Subconsciously, Molly toys with the microscope charm hanging around her neck. The metal feels cool against her trembling fingertips.

"Same as always, I suppose." He shifts uncomfortably for a minute, visibly warring with himself before forging ahead. "What's that?" He points to the object clutched in her hand, and Molly drops the necklace as if burned.

"Oh, it's nothing, Tom. Just a gift from an old friend. He stopped by while you were at work and dropped it off."

She can see the exact instant that realization dawns on him, knows precisely when he understands what she is neglecting to tell him.

"It's that Sherlock Holmes bloke, right? The recently resurrected consulting detective who supposedly jumped off the roof of St. Bart's?"

Molly nods, unable to form the reassuring words he so desperately wants (_needs_) to hear from her. _He's just a friend. It means nothing._ She will not lie to the man in front of her, and he will not believe her even if she does.

"I've always known he was special to you, from the haunted look you'd get on your face when you passed the spot of his jump, and the way you wouldn't so much as mention his name. I didn't think much of it, to be honest, because he was dead, and you were with me. Then, he wasn't dead anymore. I guess I've been expecting this for quite some time."

Tom gazes at her sadly. Molly realizes she has never really had a choice. Her heart has made its decision, made it years before she even met Tom. Shame consumes her as stares at Tom, but she cannot stop herself from comparing the two men.

Tom is safe and reliable. He is dependable, whereas Sherlock is… exciting. Passionate and charming, arrogant and tactless, he ignites her soul like no one else ever has. Or ever will.

Still, her brain refuses to accept what her heart already knows, hell-bent on self-preservation and preventing further heartbreak.

She tries to salvage the situation, piece together the remnants of her shattered relationship. "I sent Sherlock away, Tom. He left."

Tom's smile is both painful and full of understanding. "I know you're scared, Mols. But you won't forgive yourself if you don't at least give it a go. You owe it to yourself, as well as Sherlock and I, to try. Otherwise, our entire future will be marred by what-ifs and regrets. We both deserve better than that."

Moisture drips onto Molly's balled fist, and she touches her hand to her face, stunned to learn that she is crying again. She laughs bitterly as she wipes her tears aside, guilt eating away at her for what she is about to do.

She slowly rises and walks to her fiancé. He frowns as she gently removes his grandmother's engagement ring from her finger and holds it out to him. Their fingers brush as she returns it to him, and he encouragingly squeezes her hand. Here she is, breaking his heart by choosing another man, and he still has enough compassion for her to offer reassurance, to let her know he does not resent her for her decision.

"I really don't deserve you," she whispers, cupping one of his cheeks as she gently kisses the other. "I'm sorry, Tom."

He does not reply, only gathers his belongings that are scattered throughout the flat. He scratches a purring Toby behind his ears and stumbles to the door. He halts in the doorway and turns back to her. "Good luck, Molly. Merry Christmas."

She stares at his retreating back, not moving until the door softly closes downstairs. Then, she hurries to her bedroom and quickly changes her clothes. She has somewhere else she needs to be tonight.

XXXXX

Molly chooses to walk the few blocks to Baker Street, too impatient to wait for a cab at this hour. Snow blows all around her, reflecting the tumultuous feelings swirling around within her.

When she arrives at his building, however, she stops and stares up at his open window. A beautiful melody drifts out into the wintry night air, and Molly can almost see him sitting in his chair, pouring all of his unwanted emotions into the music as he plays his violin.

She taps lightly on the front door, hearing the music pause in response. After a few moments, the music begins anew.

Molly knocks again, louder this time.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he yells, and Molly winces at the bitterness in his deep baritone. He has obviously forgotten that the elderly woman is visiting her sister for the holidays.

After she bangs on the door once more, she listens as he stomps through his flat, slams open the door to his flat, and plods down the stairs. She jumps as the door to 221 Baker Street bursts open, revealing a rather livid Sherlock Holmes.

"Who could possibly need –" He draws up short as he sees the petite woman, bundled in a thick coat and purple scarf. "Molly?" His expression softens a bit, but she still reads doubt in his mesmerizing greenish-blue orbs. He is afraid to get his hopes up. Molly recognizes the feeling as the same one churning through her veins, causing her heart to speed up as she looks at him.

"I love you!" she blurts out, unable and unwilling to keep the sentiment to herself any longer. She has alluded to her feelings in the past, acknowledged them when he asked her outright earlier in the evening, but this is the first time she has said those three little words aloud. She has decided she wants him, wants to see where this (whatever it is) leads, and is finished hiding herself from him.

A hint of a grin is visible on his perfect mouth as he speaks. "Tom…?"

"Is a much better person than either of us could ever dream to be." She steps closer, and her eyes drift up to meet his. She holds her left hand up to him, and Sherlock's smile widens at her ring-less finger.

"That's it, then? You've made your decision?" he questions, still hesitant to fully believe the evidence laid out before him. Molly is here, unattached, and declaring her love for him. It all seems much too wonderful to be real.

"Sherlock, I made my choice seven years ago when an arrogant, smug bastard waltzed in the morgue, demanding my assistance with an experiment. I'm just sorry it took me so long to catch up."

"I am sorry as well, Molly Hooper." He bites his lip before reaching out and grabbing her hand. He laces his fingers through hers, bringing her hand up to his lips to place a kiss on her knuckles. Molly allows him to pull her inside and closes the door behind her with a foot.

"We have a lot to discuss, Sherlock," she says to the man, the love of her life. He nods as they ascend the stairs to 221B.

Yes, there is still much to be said and forgiven before they can move forward with this new development in their relationship. But as Molly listens to Sherlock perform a gorgeous rendition of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas", hope blossoms in her heart. Things will be different (_better_) this time.

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**Not sure I like the ending, but oh well. Review?**


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